


Flashes of a Lifetime Together

by ponderinfrustration



Series: Always Be There [1]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Angst, Friends to Lovers, Illness, M/M, Persia, Pharoga - Freeform, Romance, Wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-12 18:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9083416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: The Daroga and Erik, and a lifetime of falling together and falling apart.





	1. Episode One

**Author's Note:**

> Writing for dying-suffering-french-stalkers, whom I had for potosecretsanta.

The breathing of the man sleeping beside him is soft, and slow. In, and out.  And in, and out. And in, and out. It is a rhythm that he could tune himself to, this breathing, as sweet as any music he has ever heard, repeated hundreds of times every day, and how easy it is for him to just stop, and listen.

That breathing has been his to listen to for fifteen years now. Fifteen wonderful years, and he has wondered, many times, how it is that he has been the one blessed to get to listen to it.

His eyes prickle at the very thought. This man, this wonderful, sweet man, has chosen him to love of all people.

Slowly, Rahim opens his eyes. Erik is still sleeping, though it will not be long until he wakes. The rest will have done him a world of good. He has been plagued with nightmares in the last weeks, tormented by them, and to see him resting peacefully is enough of a rare sight that Rahim’s heart aches to see it.

He bows his head, presses a kiss softly to his forehead. It is barely there, and yet it is enough to cause Erik’s brow to furrow, and he feels a smile twitch his lips. Fifteen years of being with this man, and still a kiss is enough to startle him, even half-asleep. It is almost funny. If it were any other man, it _would_ b _e_ funny. But it is Erik, and being Erik, Rahim knows all too well why he is so easily startled. The smile dies away, and he slips his hand down, twines his fingers between Erik’s own and squeezes them.

One gold-hazel eye flickers open, regards him warily, and in a moment Erik sighs, closes it again. “You may kiss me again, if you wish,” he murmurs hoarsely, his lips barely moving, and Rahim bows his head a second time, presses a kiss to the corner of those lips. Erik shifts, very slightly, but enough for their lips to align, and the kiss is a delicate one, lasting only a moment but leaving a burning deep in Rahim’s chest to hold this man close and never let him go.

(It is always there, that desire to keep him, to protect him, it just burns a little brighter today. Fifteen years could never be enough with him.)

“Happy anniversary,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to see that Erik’s eyes are still closed, “my love.”

The smile that flickers at the corners of Erik’s lips is a true one, infinitely precious and he burrows his head deep in Rahim’s chest, shifting closer to him. “I could never get tired of hearing you say that.”

Rahim sighs, and lays his head back down, folds his arms a little tighter around Erik. Fifteen years, and his own lips twitch into a smile. Fifteen years, but of course, it started long before that. All of thirty-five years ago, if his memory serves.

* * *

 

They sent him to find a magician. Well, that’s what they told him. A magician and an architect in one, for to design and to entertain. They told him where to find him, told him he would be masked, and may be reluctant, and would require persuasion by any means necessary.

They did not tell him that the man’s voice would not be of this world, nor that their description fitted a mysterious masked assassin, known for disappearing with hardly a trace, and favouring catgut. But Rahim has always listened for whispers, has always spent time sorting through the whispers of the underworld. They would not have made him Daroga otherwise. And so he keeps his ears tuned as he travels. There is so very much one can learn from whispers, after all.

He finds the man – the magician, the architect, the assassin – at a fair in Russia. Gold-hazel eyes glow from behind a black mask, and there is not a flash of skin visible anywhere on his black-clad figure, almost as if the shadows swarmed to form him. Rahim lurks at the back of the crowd as he performs, watching carefully as he plays tricks with doves and cards and makes the garlands of red flowers sing. As those eyes pass over him he feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, stands a little straighter beneath that gaze, his blood rushing so hard for a moment it is all he hears, all he knows. His blood, and those eyes.

The gaze passes over him, flicks on to someone else, and when at last the man disappears from the stage Rahim slips around to the back, follows him to his tent.

“Who sent you?” The words hiss along his skin, and he almost shudders, turns to find the man that he thought himself behind actually behind him. “What is it you want?”

“I am an emissary from Persia.” Those eyes bore into him, and he knows that though he needs to be honest, needs to fulfil his duty, he would dearly love to not have to associate with a man such as this at all. He takes a breath to soothe the pounding of his heart.

“The Shah.” It is not a question, and Rahim nods in answer to it all the same. There is a whole list of things that he was given to say, but somehow, looking at the man standing before and the way he has his head tilted, eyes narrowed, Rahim knows that they would never work.

“Of course.”

The mask does not shift, but the eyes twitch and Rahim cannot shake the feeling that the man is suppressing a laugh, yet when he speaks again his voice is stone cold.

“Be back here in three days. I will give you my answer then.” He disappears in a swirl of black cloak, and all Rahim can do is stare at the spot where he stood moments ago.

Three days later he is back there, waiting as instructed, and the answer, it transpires, is _yes_.

* * *

 

It is not friendship, not at first. It is toleration, to put it mildly. The magician – Erik, he is Erik now – is far from the easiest man Rahim has travelled with. He varies from silent to loquacious – often over the course of a few hours. He can travel in the greatest rush, wearing out the horses, Rahim, and the servants, or he can go along at an easy pace, taking in the country, stopping to sketch the scenery. One day – several days, actually, over the course of the journey – they do not move at all, Erik being in a creative mood. He spends the days in his tent, with his violin and his papers, and spends the time composing, or takes his soft-skinned notebook outside and balances it, and draws.

“It is necessary to act when the muse strikes, Daroga,” he murmurs dismissively, and will not be drawn to speak further.

Rahim alternates between admiring him, and wanting to throttle him.

It all changes, of course, after they reach the Shah’s court. Well, Erik doesn’t change. He is still infuriatingly wilful and light-fingered – lifting Rahim’s pocket watch just because he can, or different jewels, or gold. No. _Erik himself_ is not at all different. Rather, Rahim is assigned to watch him, surveillance coming above all of his other duties, and watch him he does. He watches him sketch, watches him compose, watches him lie sprawled on a rug in idle contemplation, and thinks that he is the strangest, most fascinating man he has ever come across.

“Join me, Daroga,” Erik gestures imperiously one night from his position on the floor. “The humours are excellent down here tonight.” He shifts over, cocks an eyebrow behind his mask, and Rahim has no option but to comply. He lies down beside him, and stretches out, and Erik does not speak another word, and Rahim does not know what _he_ is supposed to be thinking about these _excellent humours_ , so he lets his mind wander, though it returns over and over to the man lying silent beside him, eyes closed and hands folded though he is certainly not asleep.

He wonders to himself, knowing instinctively that he must not ask, what it is that Erik hides beneath the mask, but he does not see it. Erik is too careful, wears a mask that shows his thin lips when taking his meals, and always wears his mask firmly in place, shrouds himself in silks. But yet, Rahim knows that, if his hands are any sort of indication – he does not wear his gloves when playing his music, says they restrict the movement of his hands, and the downcast look in his eyes is enough that Rahim’s heart almost aches for him – if Erik’s hands are anything to go by, then Rahim thinks he does not want to ever have to see his face.

Soon, toleration gives way to an uneasy friendship, an alliance almost. Erik is wary, ever wary, and cautious, and Rahim is repulsed by the tasks the Shah has set him – murder and torture as much as music and magic and architecture – repulsed yet strangely drawn to him, outside of the bounds of his duty. They pass many evenings in quiet conversation, Erik weaving worlds with his voice and gestures, a master story-teller, and Rahim passing on the news of the court. Erik pretends not to care for gossip, but he thrives on it. They talk, and sip wine, and Erik plays his music, and it is easy for all of its strangeness, in spite of the way it sometimes feels as if the connection they have forged could be snapped in a heartbeat.

The first night Rahim draws a smile from Erik, a true proper smile that lights up his eyes and not the twisted, bitter one he has seen too many times, he cannot help the flicker of satisfaction in his gut. He pushes it from his mind and tells himself that it is nothing, that it does not mean a thing.

(And all the while, that small voice whispers in his mind, that that is so very much a lie.)


	2. Episode 2

The first time Rahim sees Erik without his mask it is an accident. Rahim is in his own rooms when Erik stumbles in, arm pressed to his belly. “…attacked on my way…from the Shah,” he breathes, before his eyes roll in his head and he crumples in a heap. He is bleeding heavily, the wound across his stomach long but not deep, and between them Darius and Rahim carry him to the sofa, lay him out. They strip him and wash the blood away, pack the wound and bind it, and only then Rahim truly notices the mask missing.

The sight of it takes his breath away.

Erik’s face is gaunter than Rahim might ever have imagined it, cheeks hollow and eyes set deep, head nearly bald though he is only a young man. But it is the nose, the fact of _no_ nose, that truly gives him the appearance of a skull. How can anyone _living_ look like that?  And Erik is very much living, his breathing coming in pained gasps from between parted lips, eyelids fluttering.

Bile burns Rahim’s throat and he swallows it down, uncertain if it is due to the sight of the wound or the face.

Hardly does the thought cross Rahim’s mind when Erik whimpers, brow furrowed. “Da…roga,” his lips form the word more than speak it. “Daroga, I—”

The wave of hesitation that trembles through Rahim lasts a moment, only a moment, and later it will be that moment that torments him, but now he presses his finger to Erik’s thin lips, surprised at how soft they are. Damn his face and how it looks! What does it matter when he’s wounded? When he’s lost so much blood and is so weak? What does it matter how he looks? He is the same Erik, surely, in spite of his face! “Don’t try to speak, Erik.” His voice is calm, so calm even though his heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his throat. “Just rest.”

(Of course he is the same Erik. _Of course_.)

“Daroga, I…my room…need…help me…back.” His eyes flicker open, shining gold with pain and pleading and Rahim grasps his hand, squeezes it gently.

“You must not move, Erik. You must not waste your strength.”

“Please. Need…need to…hide. They…I…killed them.” He gasps, half-twists, a horrible choking noise coming from his throat and tears glistening on his sunken cheeks. Rahim wipes them away with trembling fingers, presses the wine that Darius gives him to Erik’s lips. Erik shakes his head, slumping back, eyes rolling. “No. Pl…ease Da…roga. Pl…ease.” His voice is fainter than it was a moment ago, and Rahim’s heart lurches as he pushes the thought away, squeezes Erik’s fingers tighter. _He is tired, that is all.  Just tired. That’s why he’s so weak, he’s tired._

The thoughts tumble together in a mass, a jumble threatening to overwhelm him and Rahim shakes his head to clear it. “No, Erik. You would not make it there. Just rest here. Rest and get your strength and Darius and I will help you later, I promise. You’ll be safe here.”

Erik regards him warily from heavy-lidded eyes, his gaze piercing even now, looking as if he might protest, then sinks deeper into the sofa, eyes slipping closed as he nods faintly. “All right. All…right.” He sighs, his fingers limp in Rahim’s hand, and Rahim almost thinks him unconscious until he murmurs, lips barely moving, “Stay with…me, Ra…him. St…stay.”

Rahim nods, though Erik cannot see him, and curls his fingers tighter around Erik’s own. “I will,” he murmurs. “I will. I promise.”

Erik’s lips twitch, just slightly at the corners, before his face slackens and his head lolls. For a moment, one awful fearful moment, Rahim fears he’s died as simple as that, but then he hears the harsh breathing, sees the faint furrow of pain that lingers between his eyes, and knows that he is merely unconscious.

And it is only later, Erik settled more comfortably in Rahim’s own bed, and his bandages changed, that Rahim realises that Erik did not call him _Daroga_.

* * *

 

It is a slow recovery. Erik drifts between wakefulness and fitful sleep for several days, refusing to take any opium for the pain because it will _interfere with my mental faculties_. Rahim barely leaves his side for fear that doing so will precipitate a worsening of his condition (so he tells himself, refusing to admit that he cannot bear to hear Erik wake and panic at being alone). When the Shah discovers that his magician/architect/executioner has been wounded in an ambush he goes on the warpath. A series of executions follow, and the best healers are sent to Rahim’s rooms, and Erik, in one of his moments of lucidity and wearing a mask Darius has fetched at his request, sends them away. Only Rahim is permitted to touch him, to help him, and that level of trust twists something deep in Rahim’s gut.

(He is certain were Erik fully lucid he would make some quip about Rahim being incompetent enough that he cannot hurt him, and it would almost be a comfort to hear such words. Instead, Erik issues faint instructions on how to care for his wound, and Rahim follows them to the letter, and receives a handful of pained smiles for his efforts.)

Eventually, though, Erik gets to the stage where he can sit up in bed without the wound threatening to re-open, and though convalescence is slow it is a little easier to bear. He idly plucks the strings of his violin, sketches plans and plays chess, and if the uncertain friendship that existed between he and Rahim before the attack steadies into a proper friendship after it, neither man comments on the fact. It simply is what it is, and that is that.

It is a peaceful time, in many ways, and though Rahim sometimes thinks of the men Erik killed in self-defence, sometimes stirs from sleep at the sound of Erik’s nightmare-whimpers, he tries to push it all from his mind. It is not his place to worry about what Erik has done. It is not his place. His only duty is to tend to his friend ( _friend_ , the very word sends a thrill through his stomach) and try to keep him well.

It is different when Erik is able to work again the way the Shah wants him to. In between overseeing the construction of the new palace and providing regular entertainment with his music and magic tricks, he is commanded to design torture chambers, to invent ever more gruesome methods to kill people. And though Rahim is spared the details he cannot rest easy with the knowledge of what Erik has become involved in. It weighs heavy on his mind, the deaths and injuries Erik is responsible for, but there is nothing he can do to stop it, even on the nights Erik comes to his rooms tired and drawn and insists that he does not wish to spend the night alone with his servants.

“I do not wish to see them like that,” he whispers, “I do not wish it.” And Rahim stays up talking to him, to draw his mind down easier paths. And when their hands brush as Rahim passes Erik coffee, and warmth tingles in his fingertips, the very air whispering against his skin, he insists it does not mean anything, and pushes it from his mind.

(It comes back to him at night, alone, and it not so easily forgotten then, and he lies awake, staring at the stars outside his window and wonders if maybe, just maybe, Erik is lying awake thinking of him, too.)

* * *

 

He has no true memory of the end. There are only glimpses, flashes of flickers of moments. Erik, mask-less with a face that does not seem so very terrible, his eyes wide and lips thin. His own heart racing at the sight of him, at the need to get him away quick. Erik, his voice low, whispering softly, “Come with me, Rahim.” His own heart, begging him to say yes, to mount up and ride away with him, but his head shaking, and the words that slip from his lips, “I would slow you down…need to cover for you here,” followed by his vision blurring with tears and, “Make it look like you fought.” “Ra-him.” “No.”

The darkness when it comes is swift, and sure.

Darius is hovering over him anxiously when he wakes, his head pounding painfully, and before he can speak he heaves the contents of his stomach onto the floor. Darius presses a glass of water to his lips, smooths back his hair, and the water makes him gag but he swallows it. “Er…rik.” His tongue is thick, uncooperative, but Darius hears, and nods.

“It is done, Master. He is gone.” And Rahim’s mind is slow but he knows that look in Darius’ eyes, knows the double meaning of his words, and he nods, his heart twisting painfully as the darkness rushes over him again.

He hears it in snatches over the following days, his own faint memories helping to fill in the gaps. He hears how Erick attacked him, stole his pocket watch and ran, hears how the Shah’s men tracked him across the country but never so much as caught a glimpse of him, hears how they reached the sea, but did not find a horse, only a body dressed in Erik’s clothes and mask. They took the mask, buried the body, and brought it back to present to the Shah as evidence of their success.

(He hears another story too, in fainter snatches, of Darius’ cousin living near the sea helping to guide Erik away safe, and when he sees the mask and recognises it as the one Erik habitually wore to meet the Shah, and not the one he favours for travelling in, he knows which of the two stories is the truth, and keeps his own counsel on the matter, and Darius nods in his wise, silent way, and they are in agreement.)

Justice comes for Rahim later, two years later. There is an incident with dissidents, and the Shah is displeased with Rahim anyway after Erik’s escape and supposed drowning, and the sentence of exile is passed swiftly. He takes his few treasured belongings, some necessities, and Darius and leaves with no clear picture of where he wants to go except a desire to follow the whispers that will surely lead him to Erik.


	3. Episode Three

There are snatches of him everywhere, murmurs of a masked architect, magician, assassin, with glowing golden eyes. It does not take a genius to realise that these snatches all point to the same man.

From Persia, Rahim and Darius journey to Russia, where it all began all of those years ago. Six months of sleeping huddled against each other for warmth, of stopping in every wayfarers’ inn leads to the Ottoman Empire, to the story of a masked man in the Sultan’s court with a decided talent for invention and murder, and flawless French. Rahim cannot visit the court, not in his position, not directly, but enough whispers, enough murmurs, spill forth a story of intrigue familiar in some points and with another escape at the end, and that draws them on to Romania.

The Romanian forests are mist-filled and dark and filled with the spectres of centuries, and the sombre air trails shivering fingertips over Rahim’s arms, casts Darius’ face in taut lines. They do not linger long in any once place, the weight of history and whispered myths bearing down on them, and everywhere is too small, too cold, their language marking them out, spurring them on, and it is the first time that Rahim is grateful, truly grateful, for the French Erik taught to him in quiet evenings by the fire, but it will not be last.

There is always someone, somewhere, who speaks French, or Persian, or Russian, and that is enough to guide them.

Finally, after almost a year of traipsing through Romania, a lead caught in a Transylvanian tavern leads them to Austro-Hungary. They are not the only ones to drop Persian phrases in the last years through these places, and some nights, as Darius snores rolled in blankets beside him, Rahim thinks that Erik left a trail for him, sprinklings of Persian and French to lead him on. It would be just like Erik, and he cannot say that he would be surprised, far-fetched though it sounds, and the very thought is a balm that soothes the aching in his heart.

He tells himself he is searching for Erik to keep him safe from the demons that haunted his sleep in Persia. He tells himself he is seeking Erik to act as his conscience, to keep him from slipping into the old habits of the assassin. He tells himself he wants to find Erik because the man stole his pocket watch and he wants to reclaim it. He does not tell himself that he is seeking Erik because he misses him, because he craves to be closer to him, craves to salvage what friendship they had before. He does not tell himself but he knows, oh, how he knows.

(Darius knows, too; he sees it in his eyes. But they do not speak of these things.)

Austro-Hungary leads to Prussia, leads eventually, after two years, to Belgium. And here the trail is of a masked building contractor, an architect signing his plans simply with _Erik_ , as if Rahim could not otherwise have guessed his identity. The upper-classes speak of him in hushed tones, of his genius and mystery and the fact that none of them met him in person though they caught glimpses, of how he simply disappeared one morning in 1861 after the news that Garnier was seeking contractors for his Opéra House.

1861, four years ago. _Four years_. All of that travelling and searching and all Rahim can think is that they are _still_ four years behind, until Darius points out, quite rightfully, that Erik has, being Erik and having an appreciation for both architecture and music, evidently proceeded on to Paris. And like that it is decided that they are Paris-bound, too.

They journey on, detouring only once, towards Rouen on a whim no stronger than the fact that Erik mentioned having been born there, finally arriving in Paris in the spring of 1866. And something tells Rahim, some prescient sixth sense, that he will not move on from Paris, will never leave it, so he buys a flat on the Rue de Rivoli and arranges, in a flurry of pointed letters remarking on his ancestry and his former position, for his pension to be forwarded to him from the Persian government. And it is done.

It is not so easy to find Erik. There are vague whispers about one of Garnier’s contractors, but all avenues lead nowhere and even asking Garnier himself does not yield any results. It is not in Rahim’s nature to give up, so he bides his time, and waits, and visits the Opéra House in construction, and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Four long years he waits, and then the war comes and for the sake of survival itself he and Darius lay low and avoid asking any questions of anyone at all. It is safer that way. Construction ceases and still Erik is nowhere to be found. Rahim does not doubt whether he is right to even think him in Paris (he must be, he _must_ be), and when such doubts arise he quashes them, condemns them, and tells himself that, like he and Darius, Erik is simply playing it safe during the siege.

He has never known to Erik to play it safe, but he does know that anyone with even the faintest glimmer of suspicion hanging over them is being rounded up and executed. And who has more suspicion around him than a masked man with a talent for the Punjab lasso?

These thoughts, too, he pushes away. Erik is alive, he tells himself. Erik is alive because if Erik were not alive he would know it, would sense it somehow. And there is no use in letting his mind run away with him.

Still, the war ends, and there is still no trace of Erik, and Rahim does not recommence his search. He resigns himself to thinking that perhaps Erik does not wish himself to be found, and though it is a relief to think him alive, in an odd way he feels himself betrayed, abandoned. Erik does not owe him anything, but it would be a comfort to hear something from him, even once.

Thirteen years. It has been thirteen years since the night he helped Erik escape the Shah’s court. Surely, if he wanted Rahim to find him, he could have arranged some sign. After thirteen years, is it not likely he’s forgotten that chapter of his life, and Rahim with it? It would be foolish to look for a man to whom he probably means nothing now.

These are the things he tells himself, to settle the burning in his heart that begs him to keep looking. Erik would, probably, not want anything at all to do with him now. To continue a futile search will hurt himself more.

Still, Rahim has no desire to move on from Paris. No desire to do much of anything except read his books, and sketch sometimes, and monitor the progress of the Opéra House. It is his only pleasure, now, to monitor the Opéra House’s, the debates over whether it ought to be completed, and the progress of its completion. His only pleasure, his only fascination, and when, in 1874, the inauguration gala is announced for January 1875, Rahim arranges to be there. He cannot explain the desire, just that it burns deep down in his chest, and decides that perhaps some things are best left unexplained.

It will at least provide an old man with an evening’s entertainment. Darius would tell him he is not old, but there is that tiredness in his bones that insists that he is.

* * *

 

It is at the reception after the gala that Rahim catches his first glimpse of Erik.

It is nothing more substantial than the swirl of a cloak around a corner, but he has seen a cloak swirl in that exact same way before, and there is only one man who walks with the level of all-knowing arrogance to achieve it. His throat is dry, and his heart pounds as hard as it once pounded at a fair in Russia more years ago than he cares to remember, but he is following the cloak before he has time to think, the tiredness dispelled from his bones at the sight of it, around a corner and down a stairs and around several more twists that leave his head in a spin before he’s down another flight of stairs and around a corner and out of breath but if he goes just a little further then surely, surely—

“Daroga.”

The title crashes him to a stop, the cadence of the syllables echoing around him, bringing a hundred memories crashing back of golden eyes and pale fingers and a noseless face and thin lips curling in a faint smile and he whips around and there he is, a ghost, a man he has not laid eyes on in more than sixteen years.

And before he has time to take him in, the way he hangs back to the shadows and how he stands both frail and powerful at once, the name slips from his lips, “Erik.”

“Daroga.” Erik’s voice is breathless, as if he has been winded. “ _Rahim_. Truly?”

Rahim does not know what is going through Erik’s mind, only that his own his buzzing with light-headed delight, and he nods, fighting the urge to smile. “Yes.”

Erik steps out of the shadows, his form coalescing the way it once seemed to and the familiarity of it tears at Rahim’s heart, and is Rahim dreaming or are his gold-hazel eyes filled with tears? Or is it only that Rahim thinks they are because his own eyes definitely are?

“Erik cannot—How did you—Daroga, _why_?”

Rahim feels the urge to smile die away at the shock blatant in Erik’s voice. So he was not wanted, after all. He swallows. “Because.” _I missed you. I needed you. I cared for you._ “Someone needs to keep you out of trouble.”

In the faint light Rahim can see those thin lips twist. “Erik is not the man he was.”

“I did not expect you to be.” There is a hard edge to his voice that he does not intend, but he cannot keep it away, and in front of him Erik shudders.

“Then why?”

“Because.”

“That is not an answer.”

“There is no answer.”

“Stop speaking in riddles!” Erik tears his mask off in one vicious movement, and his face is as hollow, as awful as Rahim remembers, and there are definitely tears trickling down his cheeks, his eyes shining. “Have you forgotten this _face_?”

Rahim swallows and shakes his head. “How could I?” It is the truth.  That face has haunted his every move since the night he sent Erik away. There is no lifetime in which he _could_ forget it.

And Erik’s voice is faint when he murmurs, “Then why?”

“Because you were my friend.” Honest words. He _always_ falls back on the most honest words when meeting Erik.

Erik scoffs. “Erik has no friends.”

The words pierce deep, like a dagger in Rahim’s chest, but he weathers the blow and swallows, and draws himself up to his full height. He has seen Erik in this state before, and it does not do to argue with him. “Well. If _Erik_ wishes to test that for himself, perhaps he will come to number 48, Rue de Rivoli some evening, and see for himself.” And with that, Rahim turns on his heel and walks away. And if there are tears burning his eyes, it is because he spent more than sixteen years missing this man, and he is even more _infuriating_ than he remembers.

* * *

 

It is not easy, becoming friends with Erik again, but Rahim never let himself think it would be. It is an infinitely slow process, infinitely slow and infinitely careful.

Erik comes to the Rue de Rivoli a week after that first night, and stays only a handful of minutes, but in those handful of minutes the weight of more than a decade and a half is forgiven. “I had thought myself dreaming,” he whispers, staring into the glass of wine Darius presses into his hand, and then, “I had thought you dead.” He sets the wine down without drinking it, and pulls Rahim’s watch from his pocket, setting it beside the glass, then leaves before Rahim can make any reply, and two nights later is back, sitting in the same armchair again, his eyes full of questions. “How did you get out?”

And Rahim tells him, every bit of it. The uprising, the exile, the travels across the continent, and at the end Erik gives the faintest smile and murmurs, “I hardly dared dream.”

Rahim nods and squeezes his watch, the watch Erik returned to him, longing to close the space between he and Erik and take the trembling hand resting on Erik’s knee in his own. “Neither did I.” And how he wishes he could say so much more, but the words dry in his throat and all he can manage is a faint smile in answer to Erik’s own.

It is slow, but it is not so very different to how it was before. They drink wine and play chess and Erik steals his pocket watch just because he can, and it is the same and familiar, but different, too, oh so different and the difference of it twists deep in Rahim’s chest.

Before, it was enough to be friends. Before, friendship was all he dared think of, dared dream of. But now, now, he finds himself contemplating Erik’s hands in the glow of the fire, and how his fingers wrap so carefully around the chess pieces. And how he contemplates those lips, how thin they are but how soft they look, and the crinkling of Erik’s eyes when he smiles his rare, true smile. And the nights when Erik stumbles in the door, pale and haggard and exhausted and swears he cannot sleep for the nightmares that plague him, Rahim contemplates what it might be like to hold him close, and promise to keep him safe, and never let him go.

There is a word for how he feels, he knows. There is a word but he dares not let himself think it. His feelings are wrong, wrong and unwelcome, and too much and Erik would never feel that way, not about him.

He is only Rahim, who followed him across a continent and a half out of sheer desperation and some misplaced sense of duty. And there is nothing romantic in that.

So the night when, half-drunk, they lean across the chess board and press their lips together, comes as a surprise for both of them.

Afterwards, neither knows who leaned first. It is a blur. One moment Rahim has taken Erik’s queen, and the next his lips are pressed to Erik’s and the kiss is soft, and brief, and when they pull back Erik’s eyes are shining with tears but Rahim can barely see him through his own.

“I never—” they both breathe at the same time, and Rahim whispers, “Do you truly?” And Erik answers, his voice hoarse with the tears shining in his eyes, “I do.” And their lips meet again, the chess board forgotten, and Rahim can barely breathe for the tears in his throat but they do not matter, nothing matters but that Erik’s lips are pressed to his, and it feels _right_.


	4. Episode Four

They spend the first night in each other’s arms on the divan, neither daring to sleep as if by sleeping they will wake to discover it having been a dream. They speak, softly, broken words of wonder in French and Persian. _Did you know then?...You could have said…Should have joined me…Should have left some sign…Did not think you wanted me…_ And when morning comes Erik is dozing with his head on Rahim’s chest, and when Darius pokes his head around the door to see about breakfast his face is impassive but his eyes seem almost to read _at last_.

They do not rush into living with each other. For a long time, in fact the first two years, Erik insists on still living in the damp beneath the Garnier, though most nights he spends on the Rue de Rivoli, tucked in against Rahim. And even after he truly does begin to live above ground Erik insists on keeping the lair, as he has come to refer to it, as an escape for his more _involved_ composing sessions, so as not to upset the neighbours, and Rahim often spends the night down there with him too, in order to ensure that he gets enough rest.

They are not often intimate with each other in _that_ sense. It is rare for the desire to strike them both at the same time. For them it is enough to be close, to kiss each other and hold each other, and even the night that Erik spreads Rahim upon the bed and maps him with tongue and fingers, and the night that Rahim returns the favour, it is infinitely gentle, and infinitely soft.

After the first two years, Rahim manages to convince Erik to have one of his operas performed. _It is a shame_ , he says, _to let such music go to waste_. And though it requires some persuasion, Erik at last acquiesces and submits a score for consideration. It is selected, and performed, and the mystery of the unknown composer who simply signs it _Erik_ creates a stir that makes the opera a success before it is ever performed. And when it _is_ performed the public swell around it is such that Erik sells a second opera, and a third, and with some of the proceeds Rahim arranges to have Box Five for their own personal use, and Darius’ too.

Erik directs the workings of the Opéra House through carefully worded notes, and Rahim keeps him sane, and takes up writing, and reads poetry, and Darius takes care of both of them, and the three of them carve out a corner of peace amidst the bustle of Paris.

It is a comfortable routine they slip into, a comfortable life, and though Rahim and Erik argue from time to time it is never serious, never lasts long, and they always end up tucked in together in bed, murmuring soft apologies, and Rahim cradling Erik close. And closeness is all they want, all they need, and they breathe tender words, and everything is perfect.

* * *

 

For five years, five years that at times seem so long and so short, they are happy. And then Erik starts keeping secrets.

It is not that Rahim worries that he is straying. He has far more faith in Erik than that. No, rather he worries that after five years they may have run their course. Erik becomes quieter, more contemplative, begins spending more time in the lair and haunting the opera than with Rahim.

Rahim does not draw him on it, keeps his worries to himself, afraid of what he might hear if he were to ask Erik questions. He tells himself that Erik is busy, organising the gala for the managers’ retirement and being his omniscient self, but still he lies awake at night, unable to believe the sense he tries to tell himself, staring at the ceiling with Erik’s breaths soft against his throat. A thousand tumbling thoughts trip though his mind, that Erik has fallen out of love with him, that though Erik has not strayed his heart has found another, and Rahim blinks the tears from his eyes, and holds Erik closer, and wishes that the voices in his head were not so convincing.

* * *

 

The night of the gala comes, and Rahim is sitting in Box Five, trying to work out why Erik is positively vibrating with delight. There are some excellent pieces selected for performance, to be sure, some of them Erik’s own, but Erik has _never_ been so delighted watching his own works performed. Normally he is nervous, troubled, swearing that his creations will be butchered, but tonight? Tonight Rahim is certain that he has never seen him so _ecstatic_ at the opera before.

_Surely,_ a little voice whispers in his mind, _surely this is related to his strange behaviour_.

Rahim swallows the voice down, his stomach churning. If this is to do with Erik’s strange behaviour, he thinks he would rather _not_ know.

Carlotta is due to sing an aria, when the announcement is made that there has been a change of plan, that Christine Daaé, a half-familiar name, will sing in Carlotta’s place and a glint of gold catches the side of Rahim’s eye. He looks over, at Erik beside him, and finds his pocket watch in Erik’s hand, the chain twined between his fingers. A sure sign of nerves, though from the way Erik’s jaw is set Rahim knows he is keeping his face impassive beneath the mask.

“What is troubling you?” he asks, voice low as the curtain rises, and Erik shushes him.

“Later,” he breathes, and sits a little straighter, his gaze never straying from the blonde girl standing centre stage. Rahim half-recognises her as a chorus girl, and sighs inwardly. Whatever are they thinking, putting a _chorus girl_ up to sing? Surely there is someone else to fill the gap!

Then Mademoiselle Daaé starts to sing, and Rahim takes back his uncharitable thoughts. He has never heard someone sing like her before, with a voice so pure and heartfelt, certainly not on the stage. He has only ever heard _Erik_ sing like that, and though Mademoiselle Daaé’s voice is slightly poorer than Erik’s it strikes him all at once just why his lover has been acting so mysterious, and he cannot look at the stage, only at Erik beside him, whose knuckles are white wrapped around Rahim’s own pocket watch.

In that moment, every ounce of fear and worry that has dogged him these last months falls away, and there is only relief.

Daaé finishes, half-fainting on the stage and has to be helped out, and Rahim reaches over, takes Erik’s hand and squeezes it. “You did marvellously with her,” he murmurs beneath the applause of the audience, and Erik turns to him, his eyes wide with shock.

“How do you—”

Rahim shushes him, presses a finger to his lips. “I would know the mark of your voice anywhere.” Erik’s lips twitch, and he kisses Rahim’s finger.

“I must check on her, and see how she is.” There are equal notes of pride and worry in his voice, and Rahim nods.

“Of course. And does she think you a phantom?” The question seems a natural one to ask, even as they stand, and Erik hands him back his watch.

Erik shakes his head. “She knows I am the composer. I have sworn her to secrecy.”

Of course he has sworn her to secrecy. It is a typically _Erik_ thing to do, and Rahim feels himself smile. “In that case, may I join you visiting her?”


	5. Episode Five

Christine Daaé is a delight, sweet and humble and shy, but Rahim can see the sadness that lurks behind her eyes, and though he barely knows the girl his heart aches for her. She is, in effect, how he always imagined a daughter of his might be (well, in the moments that he permitted himself futile thoughts) – innocent, and gentle, and kind. And within hours of meeting her, of seeing her shy smile and the way she squeezes Erik’s hand, Rahim knows he would do anything to protect her.

The rush of his feelings for this girl is very nearly alarming until he remembers that Erik has cared about her, in his own silent way, for months. Erik has taught her and helped her and if _Erik_ , a man who once freely confessed to having only truly cared for one person in his life (Rahim), has come to care for her, than perhaps the depth of Rahim’s own feelings are not so surprising.

Erik introduces him as “my dearest friend”, and when Rahim addresses her as “Mademoiselle Daaé” she insists he call her Christine. And it begins as easily as that.

Over the ensuing weeks, Rahim comes to know her slowly. She confides in him about the way Erik gave her her voice back, and Rahim goes home to his lover and holds him in his arms all night, telling him what a wonderful man he is, and what a good heart he has. She confides in him that she often feels lonely, feels different from the other chorus girls, and Rahim invites her to the Rue de Rivoli for dinner, and Darius cooks a wonderful meal, and Erik wears the mask that lets him eat when there’s company, and they pass a delightful evening. Another time, she asks Rahim how he and Erik met and he gives her vague answers. And she confides in him her dreams of being loved for her music, her worries, and fears for the future, how she has grieved for so long, how she knows her guardian, the veritable Mamma Valerius, will someday, too, be gone, and she does not want that to happen.  And Rahim comforts her as best he can, and offers soothing words, and when there are tears in her eyes he hugs her. She soon becomes a regular caller to the Rue de Rivoli, and Erik always wears a mask in her presence though he usually foregoes one at home, and she never questions it, and they maintain a peaceful balance.

They have known each other for all of two months, when she says, softly, one evening at the theatre, “He looks at you as if you are the greatest thing in the world.”

The words catch Rahim off guard. They are discussing Erik’s newest opera, a re-interpretation of Orpheus and Eurydice in which she is playing Eurydice, to Carlotta’s disgust, when she raises the remark. For a moment Rahim stumbles over his words, his heart swelling. “D-does he?” Erik is composing, deep in his lair, and Rahim can just see the way he would stiffen if he heard her.

Christine, her eyes warm and smiling, nods. “And you look at him as if you’ve never seen anyone more precious.” She sighs, fiddles at a loose thread in her dress. “Forgive me for asking, I do not mean to be impertinent, but are you and Erik a, a coup—”

He cuts her off. “A couple?” It crosses his mind to deny it. Suppose someone were to overhear, to suspect? It would not do for someone less-than-understanding to find out. But Christine is not one of those, he knows. Christine would be discreet, would protect them, and she is looking at him with a hundred questions in her eyes, and besides, how could he ever deny his love for Erik? He would rather die!

It is easy, in the end, to admit it, and he nods, a faint smile twitching at his lips at the thought of Erik. “Yes, we are.”

A slow grin spreads across her face, and she throws her arms around him, catching him off guard with her hug. “Oh, I hoped so!” She laughs, letting him go, her eyes positively dancing with happiness. “How long?”

Rahim can’t keep from grinning now either with the force of her enthusiasm. “Almost five years.” In a month’s time it _will_ be five years, and his heart flutters at the thought. Five years of being with Erik, of holding him, and loving him. How has he been so fortunate?

Christine sighs, breaking into his thoughts and sitting back against the wall. “I’m so happy for the two of you. I never really thought before, about two men, but there are rumours about some of the boys in the ballet corps, and the way they look at each other reminded me of you and Erik, and I thought I’d ask, just to see. Oh, it’s wonderful!”

That night, as Rahim crawls into bed beside Erik, he pulls him close and presses a soft kiss to his cheek. “Christine is very happy for us.” He cannot keep the smile from his lips as he remembers her reaction, and Erik frowns.

“Did you tell her?”

Rahim shakes his head. “She guessed.”

A slow smile spreads across Erik’s face, and Rahim’s heart stirs at the sight of it. “I always knew her to be far more perceptive than she gives herself credit for.”

* * *

  
A week later, Christine comes to them, clearly troubled. She sits in her usual chair by the fire, her fingers wrapped around a cup of cinnamon and lemon tea. The circles under her eyes show she has hardly slept, and Erik’s fingers are curled tight around Rahim’s, his knuckles white.

“Raoul—the Vicomte the Chagny has asked me to dinner,” she says, her voice soft, eyes looking steadfastly into her tea. “I—I do not know if I should accept. Mamma says I should, but—”

“Do you want to accept?” Erik cuts right to the core of the matter, and Rahim feels an urge to berate him for not letting Christine finish, but clamps down on it.

“I—” She casts her eyes about the room, fingers curling tighter around the cup. “I don’t know. I do, but I don’t. I mean, I like him. He was a dear friend of mine, for a time, when we were children, but—but I don’t know if I like him in _that_ way.” She bites her lip, looking as if there is more she wants to say, but is unsure how to frame it. “His family would frown on me.”

“He’s just asking you to dinner, not marriage.” The words seem the logical thing to say, roll off Rahim’s tongue at the same moment as Erik says, “His own brother is having an affair with La Sorelli!”

Rahim’s neck twinges with the speed his head turns to look at Erik, and Christine is staring at him. Erik, for his own part, simply blinks and sits deeper into his armchair. “I thought everyone knew that,” he says, his voice mild. “It’s been going on for years.” Rahim emphatically _did not_ know about the Comte and the leader of the ballet corps, and by the look on Christine’s face she didn’t know either. “What I mean to say is,” Erik sighs, and Rahim can hear the roll of his eyes, “if you want to have dinner with the Vicomte, you should. By all accounts he seems a sensible boy.”

When, at last, Christine leaves, it is with smiles and giggles and many thanks for helping to clarify her thoughts, and it does Rahim’s heart good to see her so happy. But hardly has the door closed behind her when Erik pulls his mask off, his smile dropping. “If that boy hurts her I’ll kill him.”

* * *

 

For the next three days, Rahim slips back into his old role of Daroga. Well, not truly, but he does make a study of the Vicomte de Chagny, gleans every scrap of information he can. He tells himself that he is just worried for Christine, that he wants her to be safe, and happy. Erik makes no comment, but broods over his violin, and when the night of the dinner comes, he unfolds himself suddenly from his chair and says, “I’m going out.”

Rahim does not question him, knows it is futile, simply raises an eyebrow and says, “Don’t kill the boy.” A moment later, the front door bangs closed, and Erik is gone. It crosses his mind, a moment, to follow him, but then he sighs and shakes his head. Life is too short to try and stop Erik when he is intent on spying on someone.


	6. Episode Six

Hours later, Rahim is still sitting by the fire, still reading, when Erik stumbles in. He knows it is Erik though the cadence of the footfalls is wrong, and with a wave of nausea washing over him he sets his book down. Erik slumps onto the divan, wincing, and Rahim catches sight of his face.

His face. When he left he was wearing his mask.

Rahim registers the lack of a mask even before he registers the blood running down the side of Erik’s face, and he is at his side in a moment, easing him down to lie fully. Erik whimpers, his face contorting, and Rahim feels another check at his heart as he pulls open his waistcoat, and shirt, finds a flourish of faint bruises along his ribs, and Erik gestures feebly at his left leg. “You’ll do nothing…for my ribs…but you might solve that.” His voice is hoarse, breathless, and Rahim turns around, looks at his leg. It is bloodied, his trousers soaked and the fabric torn open, and Rahim tears the fabric further, to see the damage, his hands coming away bloodied. The gash along Erik thigh is long, deep, and Rahim’s fingers tremble in spite of himself. He saw a man bleed to death from a leg wound once, but when his eyes meet Erik’s Erik shakes his head. “Not that…deep, Rahim. Would take care…of it myself but…” And he gestures at his ribs.

Darius appears at Rahim’s side, with a basin of warm water, a bottle of spirits, and clean linens. Without another word they go to work cleaning the leg wound. Erik winces as Rahim wipes the blood away with the spirits, whimpering low in his throat, his knuckles clenched white. Darius disappears a moment, returns with an uncorked bottle of wine that he presses into Erik’s hand. Erik gives him a faint smile, then roars as Rahim swabs the wound again.

It is not truly as deep as he feared, but it is deep enough. Much of the blood is dry, though his cleaning re-opens the gash and fresh blood dribbles out. When he is satisfied that it is as clean as he can get it, and Erik has half the bottle of wine sipped away, he cuts off Erik’s trousers and with Darius’ help binds the wound.

At last, he sits back on his heels and eases the bottle of wine from Erik’s grip, taking a mouthful of it himself. Another time Erik night berate him that that is not the correct way to savour wine, but now Erik only regards him tiredly from beneath heavy eyelids, and Rahim’s gaze is drawn back to the blood on his face. The edge of his left eyebrow is split open, and the corner of his lip, and his right cheekbone, and Rahim’s heart aches at the sight of it. “What happened?” he asks, the question that has tormented him since Erik stumbled in. “Who did this?” For one mad moment he thinks it might be the Vicomte, upset at Erik spying on his dinner with Christine, but in the next moment the thought dissipates. Erik would not come home with such injuries from the Vicomte.

Rahim presses another strip of linen to the top of the spirits bottle, tips the bottle then rights it, and with the soaked strip cleans away the blood from Erik’s eyebrow. Erik hisses, his lips twisting.

“Insolent thieves,” he breathes, “five of them. Must have thought I was easy, an old man shuffling along with a mask. Well, they learned.”

The eyebrow has sealed itself, and Rahim moves on to the cheek, Erik’s words tumbling in his mind. _They learned_. “You didn’t—”

“They’ll live. They’ll just be very sore,” he sucks in a breath as the spirits burn his cheek, “for a long time.”

Rahim cannot help the wave of relief that crashes into him, and he cannot explain it. If Erik had killed them it would have been self-defence, he could justify that to himself. But Erik has killed so many men before, and the thought of more blood on his hands…

Erik’s voice is soft as he murmurs, “Don’t worry about it, Rahim.”

Soon, the blood wiped off Erik’s face, Rahim and Darius help him to bed, and all that night lying beside him Rahim cannot sleep, cannot help feeling as if it twenty years ago and more in Persia, Erik’s slashed open belly a new wound, cannot keep the memory the gash in Erik’s leg from his mind, and what if that had been in his chest? What then? He’d be lying dead somewhere, or nearly, and Rahim cannot keep away the wave of panic that rushes over him, squeezes Erik’s hand tighter, aching to hug him but afraid to jostle him in case it hurts his ribs. The bruises have already deepened into purple, and all he can do is lie there, regarding Erik’s pale face in the faint light from the street, and know that he is not sleeping either, not truly.

Sometime around dawn, Erik’s eyes flicker open, roll to look at him, a faint smile twitching at his lips. “The Vicomte treated her like a princess,” he murmurs, “and escorted her safely home. He is a good boy.”

A smile tugs at Rahim’s own lips, and he kisses Erik’s forehead gently. “I did not doubt it.”

* * *

 

They doze, somehow, and Rahim wakes before Erik, and contemplates him. Sometimes his heart swells with how much he loves this man, how much he needs him. If he could he would hold him, would keep him for a thousand years and never let any harm come to him.

He should have followed him last night. If he had it might never have happened, his face would not be hurt, his ribs not bruised, his leg not wounded. He could have helped him in the fight, and even if he had been wounded he could have helped him home. He would not have had to suffer and struggle alone. He should have been there.

Tears sting his eyes and he swallows, nuzzles into Erik’s thin hair. Oh, what he would give now to have been there, to have protected him. Anything to spare him such pain. Even his knuckles are bruised and cut from the fight, and Rahim strokes his thumb gently over them. He should have been there.

“It is better that you were not.” Erik’s voice, gravelly from last night’s wine and sleep, breaks into his thoughts, as if he might be able to hear them. “I could not forgive myself if—”

“And you expect me to be able to forgive myself?” Rahim does not mean to be so sharp, but he cannot help it. “You could have been killed.”

Erik is silent a long time, and Rahim almost thinks he’s dozed off again until he murmurs, “Better me than you.”

* * *

 

They rise a little while later, and though Rahim insists that Erik stay in bed, to rest his leg and ribs, Erik is too stubborn and insists on gong to the drawing room. Deciding that it is better to help Erik there than to risk him doing himself an injury in his stubbornness, Rahim helps him dress.

“I’m not an invalid,” Erik mutters as Rahim carefully buttons his shirt for him.

“No, but I’m not going to let you make your ribs worse either.”

Erik mutters something in an undertone that Rahim can’t quite make out, though the gist of it seems to be that he is a _Persian fool_ , and he sighs, and rolls his eyes. There really is no use in arguing with the man when he’s in such a mood, and though such words might have stung him once from those same lips they roll off him now.

Having helped Erik pull on a dressing gown over his shirt and trousers, Rahim kisses his good cheek and Erik chuckles, his mood seeming to dissipate in a moment. “I can’t imagine it’s improved my looks any,” he murmurs, and Rahim smiles.

“No? I think it’s a big improvement. You’ll be very colourful in a day or two when your bruises settle.”

Erik’s lips twitch just slightly. “Persian swine.”

“Stubborn French mule.”

“I love you too.”

The words go right to Rahim’s heart, and warm him, and he kisses Erik gently on the lips.

After, Rahim helps Erik to the drawing room, and this time Erik does not protest. Darius serves them tea (and Rahim notes that he too seems relieved to see Erik as stubborn as ever), and soon after a knock comes to the door. Erik pales, and sets his cup down.

“I need my mask,” he whispers. “There’s a spare one in the room.” He makes to rise, and Rahim lays a hand on his arm to stop him.

“You’ll only aggravate your cuts with a mask, maybe re-open them. You can’t wear one like this.”

“Then I have to hide!”

“You can’t hide in your condition, you’ll hurt yourself.”

Darius steps in, a questioning eyebrow raised. “Mademoiselle Daaé is here. What will I tell her?” Christine is not expected, and a chill goes down Rahim’s spine.

“She can’t see me like this!” Erik bolts out of his armchair, but his leg buckles under him. Rahim catches him before he can crash to the floor, and eases him back into the chair.

“Just stay there. I’ll talk to her.”

“She’ll want to see me!”

“Well then we’ll let her see you.” The words catch Rahim himself off guard, and Erik stares at him, but he pushes on. “If she can deal with the fact of _us_ , then she can deal with your face. Your face isn’t half as shocking as we are, and knowing Christine she’ll be more upset over the fact you’ve gotten injured. Let me prepare her.” He cannot explain why, but he is certain that Christine can be trusted not to get upset over Erik’s face, and if there is one thing that Erik needs now it is someone who is able to accept his face, someone other than Rahim and Darius.

Erik is silent a long time, his eyes fixed on Rahim’s pocket watch, but eventually he nods. “All right. But if it horrifies her, I’ll get a mask, agreed?”

Knowing he won’t win another battle, Rahim nods. “Agreed.” He squeezes Erik’s hand, kisses his forehead. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Oh, please. Take your time.”

Rahim smiles at him, and wishes that there to be something he can say to make Erik feel better, and slips out. Christine is waiting by the door, her fingers knitted and brow furrowed, face pale. When she sees Rahim her eyes brighten.

“Oh thank God. I thought something had happened to one of you! Darius seems so worried.”  She throws her arms around Rahim in a tight embrace, and he gently disentangles her.

“You’re not too far off the mark,” he says softly, his heart twisting at even having to think the words. “There was an—an _incident_ last night, and Erik was caught up in it.”

Her face pales again, and eyes widen, her fingers digging into his arms. “Is he all right? What happened? Rahim?”

“He wounded his leg, and bruised his ribs, and got a few cuts on his face, not many.” For all that he has worried over Erik, it would not do to worry the poor girl needlessly. Erik will be all right now, so long as he minds himself, and Rahim needs to hold that thought close. “Christine, has he told you why he wears a mask?” It is imperative that he know how much she knows in order to prepare her fully.

She swallows, biting her inner cheek. “He said...he said he has to wear it, because he’s disfigured, that he’s always worn it.” Rahim nods. Erik’s certainly told her more than he ever told him back in Persia before the night he was attacked. It might almost be funny, if they were in a comedy drama, that Erik is always seen unmasked by someone for the first time after getting injured.

He sighs, and decides to elaborate on Erik’s own words. “He’s badly disfigured, that’s true. I mean, I haven’t noticed it in years, in truth, but it is no harm to be prepared before seeing it for the first time. There’s not really much I can say, but he…he doesn’t,” _can_ he just come out and say that Erik doesn’t have a nose? Surely that would be too blunt, but how else could he say it? “He doesn’t have a nose.” There.

Christine stares at him, her eyebrows raised, her hands slipping from his arms. “He doesn’t—Of course he does!”

Rahim shakes his head. “He designs his masks to look as if he does, so as not to disturb people. It’s a very delicate subject, so just be warned, all right?”

She nods, her eyes sad. “All right. Just—you said there was an incident. What happened, exactly?”

It’s a relief, really, to hear her bring the topic back to that. “He was very vague on the details, but he stumbled in here late last night after being attacked while on his walk. We think it might have been ruffians trying to rob him.” It is only a slight editation to the truth, after all.

“And will he be all right?”

“He should. Darius and I saw to him.” He swallows, and flexes his fingers. “Are you ready? To see him?”

She nods almost before he finishes. “Yes, of course.”

Rahim nods, and pushes the door open.  Erik raises his eyes as soon as he hears them, and offers Christine a shy smile, and in a moment she’s rushed past Rahim, and is kneeling on the floor beside Erik’s chair. “Are you really all right?” she asks, a note of worry in her voice as she reaches out and takes his hand. Rahim resumes his own seat beside Erik, and at the edge of his vision sees a tear shining in his lover’s eyes.

Erik nods, and squeezes Christine’s hand. “I am. Rahim is excellent at treating wounds.” At another time, there might be an _of course he is, I taught him myself_ tacked on at the end of that statement, but not now.

Christine nods, and considers him a minute, eyes roving over his face, and Rahim can see Erik bracing himself for what she might say next. “Does it hurt very much?” she asks, and gestures towards his face. Erik brushes his fingers over his cheek, lips twisting.

“The—the injuries, or…,” he swallows, and Rahim reaches over, takes his hand gently, and Erik twines their fingers in a moment.

“Both.” Christine’s voice is soft, concerned.

Erik shakes his head. “The injuries don’t hurt much at all. They are nothing. As for…as for my face, no. I’ve never had any pain from that.”

Christine nods, and sits back, relieved. “That’s good. I wouldn’t like to think of you being in pain.”

Now the tears _do_ slip from Erik’s eyes, and Rahim smiles at her, and nods. There is nothing better than that that she could have said, and to give Erik a moment to compose himself he decides to enquire after the Vicomte. “And your dinner last night? Did that go well?”

Christine’s face lights up, and she stands, lets go of Erik’s hand, and Erik shoots a grateful look at Rahim. “Oh it was wonderful!” she gushes. “He’s very kind, and very sweet, and always made sure that I was happy, and he’s asked me to join him again in two nights, and I’ve said yes!” A grin splits her face, and Rahim’s heart soars to see it.

Erik smiles at her, and brushes his tears away. “That is good news. We were hoping you would enjoy yourself.”

“I did! Oh thank you so much, Erik! And you, Rahim! I might have said no otherwise, and I really did enjoy myself.” She hugs them, first Rahim, and then  Erik, and Rahim notices that she is very careful hugging him, clearly mindful of his injuries, and then she twirls and hugs Darius, who is so clearly shocked by it that Erik gives an uncharacteristic giggle, and then winces when that hurts his ribs. And together, they pass a quiet morning, with Darius keeping them topped up with tea, until it’s time for Christine to go to the theatre for rehearsals. And hardly has she gone when Erik turns to Rahim with a smile and says, “I think that went rather well.”

* * *

 

Erik’s recovery from the attack is a slow one, made slower by his insistence on pushing himself too hard. Within days he is back plucking at the strings of his violin, though complaining that his fingers are in pain. If he is very careful then his leg does not trouble him very much, though on the second day he jars it too much and the wound re-opens, and Rahim has to re-bandage it tightly. Mostly he complains about the pain from his ribs, and refuses to take laudanum and sits in his chair with his leg propped up. Rahim takes care of him with infinite gentleness even when he is being absolutely infuriating, and looks forward to the day when Erik is wholly recovered.

Christine enjoys her second dinner with the Vicomte, and enjoys several more of them too, and they go for walks on the Bois, and the Vicomte brings her roses and scarves and small little things that he thinks she might like, and she goes to the Rue de Rivoli and pays no mind to Erik not wearing his mind, and lies on the divan gushing about how wonderful _Raoul_ is.

“I think she might be in love with the boy,” Erik says softly one night, lying in bed staring at the ceiling as Rahim makes his own preparations for sleep. “She is. She’ll marry him and give up the stage and all of my work will have been for nothing.”

Rahim sighs and sits on the edge of the bed, and takes his hand. “What harm if she does love him? So long as they’re happy together, is that not the main thing? You can always find a new student to train.”

Erik closes his eyes, the corners of his lips turned down. “There’ll never be another like Christine.”

And only two days later Christine confides in Rahim, “I think I might love him.”

Rahim smiles at her, and hugs her, and says, “I think you do.”


	7. Episode Seven

The morning of their fifth anniversary dawns with Erik kissing Rahim’s neck. His lips are soft, gentle, arms warm and loose around Rahim’s waist, good leg thrown over Rahim’s own. It is not often that he is so openly affectionate so early in the morning, and Rahim shifts to give him better access, sighing as those lips slip to his collarbone.

That morning is one of the few times that they make love. Erik takes the lead, gentle and slow, breathing soft words of love with every kiss. Rahim, too, is careful, infinitely careful, mindful of Erik’s still-healing injuries and how quickly so much sensation can overwhelm him, panic him, and as he nuzzles into him makes certain that he is wholly willing, murmuring softly into his throat to give him time to catch his breath.

Afterwards, they lie together, and doze peacefully, wrapped in each other’s arms, for a long time. Rahim does not dream, but what need has he for dreams when Erik is in his arms?

When he drifts awake again, some time later, it is to Erik contemplating their joined hands, the contrast of their twined fingers – Erik’s, long and pale and deceptively delicate-looking, and Rahim’s, short and dark and tough, ever-ready to catch Erik should he fall.

The thought flickers through Rahim’s mind, memories of broken sleep and Erik’s whimpers, wild gold-hazel eyes, and he knows that even with all of the pain they have endured he would not give this up for the world.

“I love you,” Erik murmurs, pressing his lips to Rahim’s hand, “I love you.”

“And I love you,” Rahim breathes, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips, and Erik smiles, slowly, and gently brushes his lips over Rahim’s forehead, and they are not perfect, but what they have is perfect, and that is all they really need, have ever needed, just to be close, like this, and able to breathe.

They lie abed for hours that feel like an eternity and a heartbeat all at once, their soft breaths disturbed only by Darius quietly bringing tea and fresh-baked croissants from the bakery, and they do not speak, not very much because what can mere words do to capture all that they have shared, all that is in their hearts?

At last they rise, and dress carefully, and Erik’s leg aches with stiffness, his ribs protesting, and Rahim helps him, and they stand for a long time in their dress suits and simply hold each other. What a portrait they surely must make, their arms wrapped around each other and Erik’s face buried in Rahim’s hair, Rahim’s ear pressed against his chest. Rahim aches to sketch it, sketch them, though he has never been an artist and could never do them justice and he thinks he might spin words to capture it, but words could never be enough either, and he stretches up, and presses a kiss, softly, to Erik’s throat, and knows that that must stand for all that he cannot say.

Eventually they disentangle themselves, and Rahim brushes faint tears from Erik’s eyes, and they take a light lunch in the drawing room. After, they go to the Luxembourg, Erik’s mask firmly in place, and enjoy a short walk, not enough to strain Erik’s leg but enough to stretch it, before going on to the Garnier. They have not been since before Erik was attacked, though Rahim has made a handful of jaunts to check up on rehearsals and support Christine. The present production, Gounod’s _Faust_ , is due to close in the next couple of weeks to be replaced by Erik’s Orpheus opera, and they do not stay to watch it, only wish Christine well. Her face lights up to see Erik out and about, and she hugs him, and Rahim, and holding both of their hands says, in a soft undertone, “Darius told me it’s your anniversary today.”

Rahim cannot help the smile that spreads across his face, and his heart flutters to see the tips of Erik’s ears burn pink. “It is,” he says, softly, and Christine grins and kisses their hands.

“Then congratulations.”

They return home soon afterwards, and Darius has dinner prepared, and gives them a bottle of fine red Persian wine.

“I contacted a cousin of mine,” he says, face impassive as ever bar the twinkling in his eyes, “mentioning only a special occasion, and he was happy to oblige with half-a-dozen bottles.”

Rahim cannot help chuckling. “In that case, Darius, please put one away and we’ll share it on our _twentieth_ anniversary.”

Darius’ face splits into a rare grin. “Very well, sir.”

They linger over dinner, and when at last they are full retire to the drawing room and settle by the fire, warm and satisfied and close to each other.

“I know we promised no gifts,” Rahim murmurs after a long time, turning to Erik, “but I could not resist getting you something. I mean, five years is a long time to be together, and especially after all…all that we’ve been through. So I got you these.” And he reaches into the inside of his jacket pocket, and withdraws a jewellers’ box, passing it over to Erik, who takes it with questioning eyes. Carefully, he opens the lid, and his eyes fall on the citrine cufflinks inside.

“Rahim.” His voice is hushed as he raises his eyes to meet Rahim’s again, and he swallows hard. “They’re lovely, Rahim.” With trembling fingers he reaches into the box and plucks out on cufflink, cradling it gently in his palm. In the light of the fire it shines as golden as his eyes, and Rahim smiles at him.

“Do you like it?”

Erik closes his fingers over the cufflink, leans in, and presses a kiss to Rahim’s cheek. “They’re beautiful.” He slips the cufflink back into the box, and closes it, sets it on the end table. He cast his mask aside when they arrived home, hours ago, and not he brushes tears from his eyes, a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips. “As it happens, Rahim, I also got a gift for you. Well, for both of us. Originally I’d intended to give it to you in a slightly more _romantic_ setting—”

_More romantic setting?_ They’re literally sitting next to each other by a fire in a room lit only by candles, and this isn’t romantic enough by his standards? Rahim does not mean to interrupt, but he cannot help it, unable to fight the chuckle from his voice. “What do you mean, a more romantic setting?”

“I, well,” and now Erik blushes, bites his lip, “well I had arranged with Darius that we would take dinner on the roof of the opera house. We had discussed it, and he was making arrangements to manage it, but then I got injured, and I would not be able to manage all of those stairs like this, so we decided to abandon the idea.” The bashful look on his face makes Rahim want to kiss him, but instead he restrains the impulse as Erik reaches into his own jacket pocket and withdraws a jewellers’ box. “I hope,” his voice is strangely tight, and a stab of worry briefly pierces Rahim’s heart, “I hope you like it.” He presses the box into Rahim’s hand, and sits back, folding his hands.

Rahim studies the box a moment. What could possibly be in it, to leave Erik looking so troubled? He takes a breath to steady the beating of his heart, and carefully opens it.

And two gold rings shine back at him.

His breath catches in his throat, and he looks up at Erik, and back to the rings, and back to Erik, and swallows. “What—”

“I mean, we cannot get married, I know that. It’s impossible. But Rahim, there is no one else…no one that I could ever see myself with other than you, and I thought, well, seeing as how we can’t get married, I thought I could still pledge myself to you with a ring, but if it’s too much—” the words tumble from his lips so fast Rahim almost can’t catch them, and Erik stands, scrubs a hand through his thin hair. “If you don’t want them it’s fine. We can forget they exist, forget this ever happened, forget—”

“Erik.” Rahim murmurs his name and Erik stops, stares at him with tears sparkling in his eyes, and Rahim’s heart aches to see the state he’s in, a voice whispering in his mind, _how has he ever doubted you?_ “Erik, I love them. They are wonderful, and so thoughtful. The whole idea is wonderful. Come here.” He sets the rings down, and opens his arms wide, and Erik comes into them. “I love them, Erik. I love them, and I love you, and there is no one else in this world that I would rather spend the rest of my life with than you, I swear it. All right?” Erik nods, and sniffs, and Rahim’s heart twists, his arms pulling him closer to that Erik’s head is resting against his heart. “Now,” he murmurs, and picks the ring box up again, presses it into Erik’s hand, “Which ring is mine.”

And that night, by the fire, each softly murmuring, “With this ring, I thee wed,” as they slip a ring onto the other’s finger, they pledge themselves to each other, and know that they will never take those rings off again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the official last chapter. Next up will be an Epilogue, which will hint at some of the things that I didn't write.


	8. Episode Eight

Ten years later, to the very night, they are still sitting on the divan, Erik sprawled along its length, his head nestled in Rahim’s lap, their rings glinting in the soft glow from the fire. Ten years. Has it truly been ten years? Rahim closes his eyes and it feels like only moments since Erik held his left hand, and slipped that ring onto his finger, vowing to love him forever.

Forever. They have almost met _forever_ so many times, with pneumonia and headaches and nightmares and more, and even now Rahim’s mind can flick back seven years in an instant, to the night he sat by Erik’s bedside and thought that he might truly die this time, watching every half-flicker of pain across that pallid face, hanging on each strangled breath, a world of worry in the Vicomte’s eyes when he dared look away from Erik. Or his mind can flick back all of eight years, and he can open his eyes and see Erik’s face hovering over him, so pale and worried, his eyes shining with unshed tears, promising that he would _do better_ , would _be better_ , would do _anything_ —

Erik smiles up at him now, breaking the spell of those awful memories, and his eyes are soft, his fingers gently woven with Rahim’s own. Rahim bows his head, and lightly presses one kiss to his cool forehead. Ten years, but there have been plenty of wonderful moments too, in that decade that feels like only minutes.

It drifts before him again, the night he and Erik danced together on top of the Garnier, Lords over Paris in their own right, the night they held each other close, the snow falling down, and Rahim truly thought that he could get lost in Erik’s eyes, the day Erik, a blanket draped around his shoulders for warmth, held little François in his arms for the first time, looking half-afraid and in love all at once. So many moments, so many wonderful sweet moments together.

Ten years since Erik gave him the ring, but _fifteen_ years of being with him. Fifteen years, and he often wonders how they got here, but there are memories for it all, glimpses of treasured moments and the painful ones too, all of them.

It is an easy explanation, but a difficult one, sometimes, to even believe.

Christine and Raoul visited earlier today, and the children. Little Filippa has always been very taken with Erik, and sat in his lap begging for all of the stories he could tell her until she dozed off. And François brought his sketching paper, and drew quietly a long time, his golden curls shining in the firelight. Later, Darius took them both into the kitchen, and gave them sweets, and Christine sat in the armchair that has long-since become hers, Raoul holding her hand, and told them their happy news. A third baby on the way, only a couple of months along, and _we would like to name it after you, both of you, when the time comes_.

Rahim has had his suspicions, for the last little while, though he has kept his own counsel on the subject, and when Erik heard the news his face lit up in a way that Rahim did not think possible, and his heart throbbed painfully with the love he keeps inside of him for this man, this great, wonderful, beautiful man.

“Sometimes I think,” Erik sighs, drawing Rahim’s thoughts back to the present, back to that same wonderful man lying with his head in his lap, his eyes closed and that soft smile still playing around his lips, “sometimes I wonder, what might have happened, of we had never found each other, that night at the gala. I might have become a ghost down there, alone, and you, you would be here, with Darius, and always wonder. We both would always wonder, what happened to the other…” He trails off, and squeezes Rahim’s hand, and it is on the tip of Rahim’s tongue to say _we must not think such awful things_ , when Erik murmurs, his voice hoarse, “I think I might have died, long ago, if not…if not for having found you.”

And Rahim cannot say anything, not anything meaningful, his throat too tight at Erik’s words, so he brings Erik’s hand to his lips, and kisses it softly, and breathes, “You would have lived. You would always live.” The thought of Erik, dying down there alone, in the lair he carved out for himself—No, no. He should not imagine such things. They are too awful, too painful. “And we would have found each other, sometime, somehow. Even had it all been different we would have found each other, in any life.”

“You have always been too good to me, Rahim.” And in the faint slur of Erik’s voice, Rahim can hear the tiredness, the exhaustion that weighs so heavy on him sometimes, and his heart twists.

“No, Erik. You have always been more than I could ever deserve. You would have lived, and I would have lived, and it would have been awful, separated from each other. And this…what we have is the best thing that could have ever happened to me.”

The smile in Erik’s voice is faint when he murmurs, “I feel the same way.”

They stay like that, quietly, for another little while, each lost in their own thoughts and memories, before they retire to bed, and there, cradled in each other’s arms, Erik free of the laudanum that has helped him sleep these last many years and their pocket watches ticking softly together on the bedside locker, there cradled close both of them are able to rest.

They have come a long way from that Russian fair, from those early years in Persia, but here, now, they will have each other, for the rest of the lifetime that stretches out before them, peaceful, and quiet, and together in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it is over. But rest assured, there will be more one-shots and short fics set in this 'verse. I love it too much to let it go!


End file.
